Fielding went on. “You’ve got an idea what I mean.”
Selby blinked. “Well, no. Actually, I don’t. You’ll have to fill me in.”
“What I mean is, you’ve been sayin’ all along that we need to stick together, which is even plainer now than before.”
“It’s true I’ve said that—”
Fielding narrowed his gaze on the man. “Do you think you’re having second thoughts about it?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“I’m wonderin’, then, if anyone’s got an idea, or a plan, on what we’re going to do as a group. I don’t have any ideas myself, but I don’t have holdings like the rest of you, so I may not see things the same.”
Selby shrugged. “Maybe.”
Fielding went on. “I can’t help thinking that we should have done something rather than just wait. Even Richard—”
“It’s too late for him,” said Selby. “He wasn’t worried about himself, but maybe he should have been.”
“Seems to me we all should be.”
“You’d be a fool not to. If a man doesn’t look out for himself, who’s going to?”
Fielding could almost hear Lodge’s voice. Mark my words. Maintaining his calm, he said, “Then I guess each of us has to have his own plan first.”
Selby put up a matter-of-fact expression as he said, “I think you’ve got to start there.”
“I see.” What Fielding actually saw, he didn’t state. Cronin’s men had started by making an example out of Selby, had raised the stakes when they moved on to Fielding, and had raised them even higher when they took care of Lodge. Now Selby did not want them to come back to him, and he wanted to avoid an alliance with Fielding that might bring on more retribution. Fielding looked down and then up again. “Do you have a plan for yourself?” he asked.
“Not yet. But I might be workin’ on one.”
“Well, I won’t ask about it.”
“Oh, it’s not a secret,” said Selby right away. “Just not very definite.” After a short pause, he added, “I’m thinkin’ I might pull up my stakes here.”
“Sell out?”
Selby tipped his head. “I might sell what I can, take what I can. But like I said, none of that’s definite yet.”
Empty homesteads. Just what Cronin wanted. “By the way,” said Fielding, “do you have an idea of what’s going to become of Lodge’s place?”
“The Magpie? I heard yesterday evenin’ that a crazy man was camped out there.”
“Dunvil, the anarchist?”
“I believe that’s him. I haven’t met him myself, but Richard mentioned him. Sounds crazy as a loon.”
“He might be.” Fielding was about to ask Selby where he heard it, but he held his question. He did not think he had that level of confidence with Selby anymore.
The knowledge that Dunvil was camped out at the Magpie caused Fielding to reconsider the sequence of his visits. By the time he had ridden half a mile from Selby’s place, he had decided to go visit the wild man and find out if he knew anything. Turning his horse to the south, he set off across country.
He came onto the homestead acreage a little to the east of where he usually did. From his position he could see three of the four conical rock piles that marked the corners of the property, while the house and stable and corral lay uphill on his right. At first he saw no signs of occupation, and then he noticed the mule picketed on the grass out beyond the stable. With a light movement of the reins he put the bay horse in the direction of the house and yard.
As he rode up the hillside and came into the yard, he had a feeling of emptiness from knowing that Lodge would never tend to his place again. The two little cedar trees stood in an area of sparse grass and hard earth, and the heap of stones by the front step looked purposeless. The door of the house was closed, as were the corral gate and the stable door. Fielding wondered how long it would be until weeds began to take over.
He called out, “Anybody here?”
He waited amidst the silence of inert stones and weathered lumber. Not a breeze stirred. He called again.
The squeak of hinges and the scrape of wood sounded from the stable. The door moved outward, and Dunvil stood in the shadowy opening.
Fielding swung down from his horse and led it forward. Dunvil did not step out of the doorway. His eyes looked like small beads.
“Mornin’,” said Fielding.
“Same to you.”
“Heard you were here.”
Dunvil scratched his beard but said nothing.
Fielding spoke again. “Bad thing that happened.”
“They happen too often.”
“Lodge was a good friend of mine.”
“I know.” Dunvil’s hand rose as if he was going to lean against the doorjamb, and then it lowered.
Fielding, in no hurry, took a couple of seconds before going on. “Another friend, named Selby, was the one who found him. Said the deputy’s been out here.”
“Might have been.”
“Said the deputy is askin’ around whether anyone knows anything or saw anything.”
“Might be.”
Fielding paused. Dunvil was being more reserved than he expected, and he did not move from the doorframe. Fielding decided to go ahead. “You didn’t happen to see anyone out this way on the day of the shooting, did you?”
“I keep to myself.”
“Sometimes those are the people who see things.”
“Well, I didn’t.” The beady eyes held steady.
Fielding thought of another approach. “Have you been in the house?”
“Not my place.” The beard made a strange movement as Dunvil wrinkled his nose. Then he went on. “Maybe you think none of it is. But don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not trying to take it.”
“I wouldn’t think you were.”
“Call me the guardian of the dispossessed if you want.”
The wording gave Fielding pause. “I’m not questioning your motives,” he said.
“I didn’t think you would, but make no mistake. This is bigger than the case at hand.”
Fielding was not sure how to take the last statement, but he thought it was the anarchist’s idea of making an example out of an isolated incident. Hoping to bring the conversation into comprehensible terms, he said, “This outfit called the Argyle seems determined to push out the smaller stockmen, and they don’t seem to be holding back now.”
Dunvil wagged his head. “Let the overlords come. If they get near me, they’ll wish they’d thought twice.”
Fielding nodded.
“If they have time to think about it,” Dunvil added.
Seeing that he had gotten as much knowledge as he was likely to, Fielding said, “Well, I suppose I’ll move along.”
“I might, too,” said Dunvil. “But not quite so soon.”
Fielding mounted up and rode away without looking back. For his own interest, he would have liked to see what Dunvil had inside the stable door, but he was pretty sure it had a stock and a barrel, maybe two.
Fielding rode around and came into the Roe yard from his usual direction. A mélange of noises came from the backyard, and a horse was grazing between two piles of salvage in front. Roe himself was leaning with both forearms against the side of his wagon, which was standing empty beyond the front step of the house. With slow movement, the man stood up from his leaning position and faced his visitor.
He was dressed in his usual fashion, with his worn hat, loose clothes, and cloth vest. Two or three days had passed since his last shave, and the knotted kerchief hung limp at his neck. With thumb and forefinger he lifted the stub of a cigarette to his lips.
Fielding dismounted and held the reins.
Roe’s eyes wandered over Fielding and the horse as he lowered the cigarette and said, “How’d’ya do?”
“All right, and yourself?”
“A day older than yesterday, and still a dollar short.”